


.380

by StrikeaMatch



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I'm Canadian I don't know guns, Poetry, and it's not even prose WTF, this is the first fanwork I've posted since my fanfiction.net account
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6621673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikeaMatch/pseuds/StrikeaMatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They understand each other, and each sleep sounder when they've got the other within arm's reach. A snapshot of a single night. </p><p>*reader's choice whether their relationship in this piece is pure friendship or the foundation of a future relationship*</p>
            </blockquote>





	.380

**Author's Note:**

> Personally, I imagine this leading to a relationship later, once they've both healed. I ship the hell out of these two, I just can't write non-dysfunctional relationships and I would want theirs to function. Think of them as whatever tickles your roses.

back him into a corner and he’ll break his own bones  
into bullet-sized bits  
and feed them into steel chambers  
till he’s down to the last jointed finger on the trigger  
and even then, he’ll still be fighting  
not to survive – the instincts sewn into his cells all perished  
dissolved by the acid bath dripping from his brain  
or suffocated on wind-blown sand, no sure way to know 

she’s not the same, was born already worn seaglass-smooth  
her edges chipped sharp since  
still pretty, but she doesn’t care about the way the light hits her  
she’s got more important things on her mind  
than the way she catches eyes 

they’ve each got a gun left on the floor beside the bed  
easy reach, hers inside a purse, his bare metal in the moonlight  
spilling in between drawn curtains – he always does that  
puts himself and his bared teeth between her and the window  
like chivalry is more than a scrap of old language  
and monsters don’t prefer the door 

he could have wanted her once, maybe, when he was another man  
before he was stripped in layers  
first civilization, the clothes on his back and ring on his finger  
then humanity, the conscious extension of a hand in friendship  
he’s the bones of Man laid bare and bloody, a brutal machine

she wears stilettos long hours; the ache keeps her grounded  
here and now, not blood-spattered and shaking  
the only heartbeat remaining in the room, racing  
she’s got her own mission and in it she sees salvation  
sex feels too much like vulnerability  
like baring her neck for breaking 

they understand each other, and that’s all they need anymore  
in the cold night, while the helicopters beat and sirens scream  
they hold each other, and let their souls rest in almost-peace


End file.
